Allday reached across the table and touched his arm. “Sorry, Bryan. That was not intended.”
Ferguson smiled, and Allday took a swallow of rum. “It means that I’ll be fifty-three this year.” He saw Allday’s sudden discomfort. “Well, I’ve a piece of paper to prove it.” Then he asked quietly, “How old does that make you? About the same, eh?” He knew Allday was older; he had already served at sea when they had been taken together by the press-gang on Pendower Beach.
Allday eyed him warily. “Aye, something like that.” He looked at the fire, his weathered features suddenly despairing. “I’m his cox’n, y’see. I belongs with him.”
Ferguson took the stone jug and poured another generous measure. “I know you do, John. Everyone does.” He was reminded suddenly of his cramped estate office, which he had left only an hour ago when Allday had arrived unexpectedly in a carrier’s cart. Despite the fusty ledgers, and the dampness of winter, it was as if she had been there just ahead of him. Lady Catherine had not been in his office since before Christmas, when she had left for London with the admiral, and yet her perfume was still there. Like jasmine. The old house was used to the comings and goings of Bolithos down over the years, he thought, and sooner or later one of them failed to return. The house accepted it: it waited, with all its dark portraits of dead Bolithos. Waited… But when Lady Catherine was away, it was different. An empty place.
He said, “Lady Catherine perhaps most of all.”
Something in his voice made Allday turn to look at him.
“You too, eh, Bryan?”
Ferguson said, “I’ve never known such a woman. I was with her when they found that girl.” He stared at his pipe. “All broken up, she was, but her ladyship held her like a child. I shall never forget… I know you’re all aback at the thought that maybe you’re getting old, John, too old for the hard life of a fighting Jack. It’s my guess that Sir Richard fears it, too. But why am I telling you this? You know him better than anybody, man!”
Allday smiled, for the first time. “I was that glad about Cap’n Adam keeping out of trouble at the court martial. That’ll be one thing off Sir Richard’s mind.”
Ferguson grunted, smoking. A revenue cutter had slipped into Falmouth, and had brought the news with some despatches.
Allday said bluntly, “You knew about him and that girl, Zenoria?”
“Guessed. It goes no further. Even Grace doesn’t suspect.”
Allday blew out the taper. Grace was a wonderful wife to Bryan, and had saved him after he had returned home with an arm missing. But she did enjoy a good gossip. Lucky that Bryan understood her so well.
He said, “I love my Unis more than I can say. But I’d not leave Sir Richard. Not now that it’s nearly all over.”
The door opened and Grace Ferguson came into the kitchen. “Just like two old women, you are! What about my soup?” But she looked at them fondly. “I’ve just done something about they fires. That new girl Mary’s willing enough, but she’s got the memory of a squirrel!”
Ferguson exclaimed, “Fires, Grace? Aren’t you being a bit hasty?” But his mind was not on what he was saying. He was still turning over Allday’s words. I’d not leave Sir Richard. Not now that
it’s nearly all over. He tried to brush it aside, but it would not go. What had he meant? When the war finally ended, and men paused to count the cost? Or did he fear for Sir Richard? That was nothing new. Ferguson had even heard Bolitho liken them both to a faithful dog and its master. Each fearful of leaving the other behind.
Grace looked keenly at him. “What is it, my dear?”
He shook his head. “Nothing.”
Allday darted a glance between them. Although separated for long periods when he was at sea, he had no closer friends.
He said, “He thinks I’m getting old, ready to be broken up like some rotten hulk!”
She laid one hand on his thick wrist. “That’s foolish talk, you with a fine wife and a bonny baby. Old indeed!” But the smile did not touch her eyes. She knew both of them too well, and could guess what had happened.
The door opened again, and this time it was Matthew, the coachman. Like Allday, he had protested against remaining in Falmouth and entrusting Bolitho and Catherine to a common mail coach.
Ferguson was glad of the interruption. “What’s amiss, Matthew?”
Matthew grinned.
“Just heard the coach horn. Sounded it, like that other time when he was coming home!”
Ferguson said briskly, “Drive down and fetch them from the square,” but Matthew had already gone. He had been the first to know, just as he had been the first to recognize the St Mawes salute when Bolitho had returned to Falmouth a little over a month ago.
He paused to kiss his wife on the cheek.
“What was that for?”
Ferguson glanced at Allday. They were coming home. He smiled. “For making up the fires for them.” But he could not repress it. “For so many things, Grace.” He reached for his coat. “You can stop for a meal, John?”
But Allday was preparing to leave. “They’ll not want a crowd when they gets here.” He was suddenly serious. “But when he wants me, I’ll be ready. That’s it an’ all about it.”
The door closed, and they looked at one another.
She said, “Taking it badly.”
Ferguson thought of the smell of jasmine. “So will she.”
The smart carriage with the Bolitho crest on the door clattered away across the stable yard, the wheels striking sparks from the cobbles. For several days Matthew had been anticipating this, backing the horses into position at the time when the coach from Truro could be expected to arrive outside the King’s Head in Falmouth. Ferguson paused by the door. “Fetch some of that wine they favour, Grace.”
She watched him, remembering, as if it were yesterday, when they had snatched him away in the King’s ship. Bolitho’s ship. And the crippled man who had returned to her. She had never put it into words before. The man I love.
She smiled. “ Champagne. I don’t know what they see in it!”
Now that it’s all nearly over. He might have told her what Allday had said, but she had gone, and he was glad that it would remain a secret between them.
Then he walked out into the cold, damp air and could smell the sea. Coming home. It was suddenly important that there should be no fuss: Allday had understood, even though he was bursting to know what was going to happen. It must be as if they had only been from Falmouth for a single day.
He looked over at the end stall and saw the big mare Tamara throwing her head up and down, the white flash on her forehead very clear in the dull light.
There could be no more doubt. Ferguson walked over and rubbed her muzzle.
“She’s back, my lass. And none too soon.”
Half an hour later the carriage rattled into the drive. The hero and his mistress who had scandalized the country, defying both hypocrisy and convention, were home.
Lieutenant George Avery regarded himself critically in the tailor’s mirror, as he might examine a stranger. He knew very little of London, and on previous visits he had usually been on some mission to the Admiralty. The tailor’s establishment was in Jermyn
Street, a bustling place of shops and elegant houses, and the air, which seemed unclean after the sea, was alive with the din of carriages and hooves.
He must have walked for miles, something he always enjoyed after the restrictions of a crowded man-of-war. He smiled at his reflection; he was quite tired, unaccustomed to so much exercise.
It was strange to have money to spend, something new to him. This was prize-money, earned over ten years ago when he had been second-in-command of the schooner Jolie, herself a French prize. He had all but forgotten about it; it had seemed unimportant in the light of his subsequent misfortunes. He had been wounded when Jolie was overwhelmed by a French corvette, then held as a prisoner of war in France; he had been exchanged during the brief Peace of Amiens only to face a court martial, and to receive a reprimand for losing his ship, even though he had been too badly injured to prevent others from hauling down her colours. At Adam Bolitho’s court martial he had relived every moment of his own disgrace.
He thought of the house in Chelsea, where he was still staying, and wondered if Bolitho and Catherine had reached Cornwall yet. It was difficult to accept, let alone take for granted, that they had left him to use the house
